


Without Interruption, Endlessly

by AJfanfic



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dom Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is Trans, F/M, Found Family, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Graphic Wound Description, Hurt/Comfort, I promise there's a lot of plot here, It's barely relevent in this story but will be later, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Sharing a Bed, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Unconventional Families, Whump, yennefer is a good mom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22337554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/pseuds/AJfanfic
Summary: Geralt has followed the Path all his life, and it had never been kind to him. That is, until it leads him to the three loves of his life, one after the other.  Epic battles, enduring love, and the mortifying ordeal of becoming known follow.A retelling of the TV show arc, beginning just before episode six and continuing after the series ends.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 56
Kudos: 253





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins in 1262, just before episode 6, Dragon Hunt, would have happened. Jaskier is 40, Geralt is much older. They have known each other for 21 years and known Yennefer for 6. Ciri is 12, and we are one year before the fall of Cintra.
> 
> If you want chapter by chapter content warnings, check the endnotes :)

_“I can’t think of any greater happiness than to be with you all the time, without interruption, endlessly, even though I feel that here in this world there’s no undisturbed place for our love, neither in the village nor anywhere else; and I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us anymore.”_

_― Franz Kafka, Franz Kafka's The Castle_

It’s been a month since they last crossed paths in a dank tavern in a port city somewhere a little more south than Geralt was comfortable with. They are further north this time, a once small mining town doing its best to outgrow the town limits. Geralt would usually have been satisfied with an inn at the edge of town. Anything with a bed, cheap ale, and a place to wash his hair. But he'd heard of a bard that had stopped in town for a while, one who sang of monsters.

The town gets brighter as he makes his way to the center, street lamps burning bright against the darkening sky. Jaskier is right where he'd expected to find him, in the middle of a crowded tavern, standing on the table with his lute in hand. Geralt finds a drink, and a corner to watch from. His songs are a mix of what Geralt is tempted to call classics, at least a decade old at this point, and new works he hasn't heard yet. Most of them are about him and their travels. Everyone joins in for "Toss A Coin," which brings the slightest curve to Geralt's lips, the slightest softening of his expression.

"This is a new song," Jaskier calls as he lets the last chord fade out. "So let me know what you think of it."

There's a cry of approval, and he grins. Jaskier begins and it's as if he'd cast a silencing spell, so quickly does the audience fall quiet. It's different from his other songs. He's a different man, still proud in his posture, but weighed down in a way he hadn't seemed a moment before. To Geralt, it's a familiar posture, an echo of what he's seen when the poet doesn't think he's watching late at night, as the fire burns low enough for a normal man to lose his sight to the darkness. He plays one chord, minor and ponderous, then lets his lute hand loose from his flowered strap as he sings to the sound of many unsynchronized heartbeats and the wind against the wooden building. It's a sad song, and desperately, achingly filled with love that has nowhere to go. As Jaskier's low voice sings, "You will scream ‘I won’t forget you’ but I’ll cover my cold ears. It cannot be a lie if no-one hears," he sounds like a chorus to Geralt, like every lover denied love. Of all the songs the bard has written about him, this one seems to know him best, although it names him not.

Geralt is transfixed, unable to avoid Jaskier’s eyes when he looks up from his lute and his gaze unerringly finds his. Were it not for the incredibly human emotion in them, Geralt would say that eyes that blue are only born of magic. Jaskier’s last chord hangs in the air and he sounds almost angry when he sings: “I knew you would forget forget-me-nots.” Like he wishes he could be angry. Geralt knows the feeling. He gives a quick bow and hops off the table. Much like the day they met, Jaskier crosses the room to him and leans against his table.

“Hey there.”

“Jaskier.”

“In town long?”

“Just passing through.”

Jaskier grins, “Heard I was in about and decided to stop by and see your very best friend?”

“Something like that. Heard about a contract in the next town north, so I’m not here long.”

“Then we must make the most of the time we have.” He claps his hands together and plants his elbows on the table. “Have a drink with me and get a room for the night.” Jaskier wrinkles his nose. “You look like you could use a bath, and a clean place to sleep.”

Geralt grunts. “I’ve got enough coin for the first of those. I’m pitching camp just outside of town.”  
“Nope, you’re sharing my room.”

“Jaskier-”

“Great! Glad you agree.” He waves to the barmaid, and she rolls her eyes but fills two plates and two pints all the same. “Let’s eat.”

Geralt falls to his meal like a starving man and Jaskier hates the thought that he very well might be. In winter, game is scarce, even for a hunter as good as Geralt. Things have been calm in the area, peaceful, which is good for everyone but a witcher. Jaskier doesn’t love the idea of more monsters tormenting the populace, but an ill-fed Geralt is infinitely grumpier than a full one.

They talk about nothing: the kikimora Geralt ran across two towns south, and the ballad Jaskier has been considering writing for the potatoes the inn serves. It’s good. It’s easy. When he’s alone, Geralt forgets about this. Forgets what it’s like having someone who can distinguish his snide sense of humor from his general air of unapproachability and actually responds to it, to him. When he’s alone for long enough, Geralt forgets he’s lonely. Then he runs into the poet, for a night, a week, a month.

Jaskier is good with people. He’s an expert at reading a crowd. He knows what they want before they do, even if it’s not something he can give. That’s when he gets out of town. But Geralt, Geralt is a challenge. Or rather, he was. There are happy grunts and angry ones. Sometimes, a confused or sad one. Tonight, Geralt just looks tired. The poet waits until they’ve both finished their meals and feigns a yawn.

“I’m exhausted.” He stands and nods towards the stairs. “I’m turning in, door at the end of the hall.” As predicted, Geralt follows him.

The room is simple, a large bed against the wall piled with furs and a fireplace along the opposite wall the only striking features. Jaskier quickly sheds his doublet and drapes it over his lute’s case. Geralt pulls off his gloves and drops them on his pack. His hands slip, clumsy with tiredness, against the clasps on his armor.

“Let me?”  
Geralt hums his assent. The first few times Jaskier had tried to help the witcher with his armor had been nothing but embarrassing. That was years ago. He pulls straps free from buckles and lifts the heavy pauldrons from his shoulders. His rerebraces next join the pile. Jaskier’s thin fingers pull loose the laces along his left side, then his right.

As Geralt shrugs out of his chest plate, Jaskier asks, "What did you think of the song?"

"The new one?"

"Yes."

"It's good. Although you really need to write things that aren't about me, you know."

Jaskier steps around to face him, panic and confusion warring in his eyes. "What are you talking about?" he snaps. He breathes deeply and plucks at the lacing on Geralt's jerkin. "I mean, Yennefer clearly adores you. You can have any woman you want. Why would I write a song about pining for you?" Jaskier's voice pitches up painfully as he rambles.

Geralt's head dips. "Right. Of course." He starts to step away.

 _Oh._ Jaskier catches him, his hand closing around his shoulder. "It's about me."

His snowy head tips to the side like the wolf who's name he's taken. "Oh."

"Yeah."

Jaskier's hand shifts to cradle his neck. Before he'd met him, the poet would have said that Geralt of Rivia was twice his size. Now, they stand eye to eye and there's something shining in those amber eyes. It isn't new, exactly, but newly exposed like ancient coins unearthed by careful hands. It thrills Jaskier to think that those hands have been his own. He leans in slowly, closing the ever diminishing gap between them. Geralt meets him before he can second guess himself and it's perfect in the way inevitable first kisses are. Chaste and hesitant but full of relief and potential.

Geralt pulls away first, his eyes flicking worriedly across Jaskier's face. "It's...about you about me?"

He sounds so disbelieving that Jaskier simply must kiss him again. He lets his hands slide down smooth leather until he reaches his hips and pulls him close. Geralt nips at his bottom lip. Jaskier bites back, catching his lip between his teeth and Geralt groans. He tugs at his jerkin, frustrated by the stiff leather. Geralt huffs a laugh and pulls away, quickly undoing the laces and shrugging out of it and his shirt together. Jaskier is back against him in a heartbeat, hands running across his chest, following the lines of muscle and dips of scar tissue. The poet walks him backward until his knees hit the bed and he has to sit or fall. He leans back, looking up at him. Jaskier’s eyes dance in the low light of the fire, skin flushed from his cheekbones to his chest.

Geralt tugs at the edge of his shirt. He obliges, tossing it carelessly to the ground. Geralt grabs it and drapes the embroidered linen over the end post of the bed. Jaskier can’t keep the fondness from his face as he runs his hands through the witcher’s hair. He tilts his head back and pressed a kiss to his lips, in thanks. Geralt trails his lips along his jaw, down his neck, worries a mark into his pulse point. Jaskier is content to let him explore, reveling in the force of his full attention. Geralt’s mouth finds his nipple, grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth. Jaskier’s breath catches and his hands tighten. Geralt pulls back, a question in his gaze, lips kiss swollen.

“Gods, you’re amazing.” Jaskier could write a poem about this. Not for anyone else, just for him, so the moment stays perfectly in his memory. Maybe he’d read it to Geralt, someday. Jaskier scratches gently at his scalp. “What do you want, Geralt?”  
He surprises him again, sliding to his knees. He hesitates, hands at the waistband of his pants. “Can I-”

“Yes, fuck, yes.” Jaskier consciously loosens his grip on his hair. Geralt undoes the button on his pants. Jaskier kicks off his boots and steps out of them, standing nude before the witcher, his cock a hard line against his stomach. Geralt picks up them up and sets them aside with the same care he’d shown his shirt. Jaskier is half tempted to ask him to strip too, keep them on equal footing, but he looks so good on his knees in those tight leather pants.

Geralt wraps his hand around the base of Jaskier’s cock and takes the head into his mouth, tongue pressing against the underside. The poet had considered asking to fuck him, but in the wet heat of his mouth, he reconsiders. He’s wound so tight, wanted this for so long, he might not last long enough to get to that. Geralt moves slowly, teasingly, taking him deeper with each dip of his head until Jaskier’s cock is pressed against the back of his throat. He rumbles deep in his chest and Jaskier can’t help the jerk of his hips at the vibration. Geralt gags a little. Jaskier pulls back guiltily, but he follows him. Geralt takes the head of his cock into his throat, breathing carefully, as if to prove he can do it, before pulling back to tease his slit. His technique a little unpracticed, but Jaskier finds his determination more than makes up for it. And besides, Geralt is a quick study. He picks up his speed, swirling his tongue around the head. He meets Jaskier’s eyes and Jaskier just catches himself from bucking into the heat of his mouth at the lust he sees there, amber nearly overwhelmed with black.

Geralt pulls off and kisses his thigh. Jaskier feels his warm breath against the sensitive skin when he says: “I can feel you holding back. Don’t.” He sounds cocky, but eagerness to please edges the words.

Geralt takes him back into his mouth and lets his hands rest on his thighs.  
“Tap me if you want me to stop.” Geralt hums his understanding and Jaskier lets go. He winds his hands into long white hair and pulls hard. Geralt moans, a choked off sound, as the poet snaps his hips forward. He fucks his mouth without mercy, trusting Geralt to know his limits. His eyes slip closed, tears gathering at their corner as he forces down his gag reflex. Jaskier presses into his throat until Geralt’s face is pressed to his groin, rocking his hips there until he pulls back enough to let him take a shuddering gasp of air. Jaskier pulls him away by his hair and a ragged moan escapes him at the sharp yank.

Geralt looks up at him with unfocused eyes. “What do you want, Jaskier?” His voice is wrecked. Jaskier presses his thumb to the corner of his mouth, lips wet with precome and saliva.

“I want to fuck you.”

Geralt kisses the pad of his finger so sweetly no one but Jaskier would believe the man was a witcher. “Okay.”  
Jaskier pulls him up to sit on the edge of the bed. “Strip and get comfortable.” He kisses him, deep and lingering, before pulling away to riffle through his bags.

Oil in hand, he turns around and his breath leaves him in a rush. Geralt is sprawled out on the furs of their bed on his elbows, waiting for him expectantly. The ever-present tension in his shoulders and brow has fallen away and he looks unburdened for perhaps the first time Jaskier has seen. He’s pale, unnaturally so, except for where lines of knotted scar tissue criss-cross his body in stark white and darker purple-red. A marble statue, if not for the soft hair across his chest, gently rising and falling. Geralt raises an eyebrow at the scrutiny and Jaskier shakes himself free of his thoughts. He crosses the room and pressed himself against Geralt’s warmer body from chest to ankle.  
“You’re beautiful,” he says and kisses him before he can retort.

Jaskier takes his time now, mapping the lines of Geralt’s skin with hands and mouth as the witcher had explored him earlier. He kisses and nips his way across his chest, laving the flat of his tongue across his nipple. Geralt groans, arching into the touch. Jaskier teases the sensitive skin with his teeth until he whines before relenting. He bites, sharp and bruising against his collarbone and Geralt keens. Jaskier sinks his teeth in until he knows the mark will last, then soothes the swollen skin with soft lips. He runs his tongue across the dips and lines of Geralt’s abs, leaving cold lines where his hot mouth had been, before closing his mouth around his cock. Geralt gasps, hips trying to buck off the bed but Jaskier holds him down with a firm hand on his hips. Some other time, he’ll return the favor and let him fuck his mouth. Instead, he runs his tongue along the length of him as he runs a slicked finger around the pucker of his hole. He slowly presses the tip of it into him with steady cautious pressure. Geralt is too distracted to tense against the unfamiliar intrusion as his second knuckle slips inside. As Jaskier teases him with a second finger, the burn of the stretch makes him hum in discomfort. The poet pulls away and nips at his nip.

“Relax, you’re thinking too much.” Geralt breathes deeply and Jaskier slides his second finger in, searching for the spot he knows will make him come undone. Unerring fingers press against the bundle of nerves and Geralt shouts, barely muffling the noise against his forearm. Jaskier would like to tell him to stop, to let him hear him, but the walls are thin and he’d rather not be chased out of town this time. Instead, he says: “Would you like me to do that again?”

“Yes,” he pants.

“Then say please.” It’s mostly teasing, and he’s not expecting it when Geralt says it, “ _Please_ ,” in the most desperate voice.

Performers live to please and Jaskier obliges, rolling his fingers against his prostate with rocking pressure. It doesn’t take long before he’s added a third finger and Geralt is trembling.

“Fuck, Jaskier.” He grinds down, searching for more than the poet’s finger can give him.

“Gods, I love how you say my name,” Jaskier speaks the words against his lips, one hand holding himself up against his chest while the other smears oil onto his cock and around Geralt’s hole until the puffy skin glistens.

Jaskier sinks into him slowly, the tight heat of him nearly overwhelming. He puts his other hand on Geralt’s chest, grounding them both as he waits for him to adjust. Geralt’s breath is unsteady as he consciously relaxes.

He swallows hard. “I’m okay. You can move.”

Jaskier pulls out nearly and sinks back into him with a fluid motion. His hand, slick with oil, slips against Geralt’s heaving chest and his fingers press against the base of his throat. Jaskier rights himself, an apology forming on his lips.  
"Do that again." Geralt must misinterpret the expression on the poet's face, because he follows quickly with, “ _please_. Do that again, please.”

And how could Jaskier say no? He takes Geralt’s hand and wraps it around his wrist, before bringing his hand back to his throat. He hadn’t expected his witcher to be submissive, to this extent, but it was far from unwelcome.   
“If you want me to stop, let go of my arm. I’ll stop the second you do.” Geralt nods and shifts his hips impatiently.

Jaskier squeezes tightly and Geralt’s eyes drop closed, his body pliant, like he’s flipped a switch. He set a slow, powerful rhythm, pulling out almost completely before slamming back in. Jaskier keeps his eyes on Geralt's face, cataloging the way pleasure makes itself known. The last thing he wants to do is hurt Geralt. His pale face is flushed pink, shining with sweat in the low light. More confident, he picks up the pace. Jaskier snaps his hips against him, feeling his own orgasm build. He wraps his hand around Geralt’s cock and strokes him in time with his quick thrusts.

Geralt doesn’t last much longer, arching into his hand as he comes, pearly streaks across his stomach. Jaskier groans as he clenches and follows him over the edge. He pulls out and collapses forward onto Geralt’s chest. They lay there, their breaths slowing and synchronizing until the stickiness becomes unpleasant and Jaskier leans away to grab Geralt’s shirt to clean them off. Geralt is barely awake, bruises purpling across his chest and around his throat, shivering slightly. Jaskier pulls him into his arms, trying for as much skin contact as possible until his shaking stops. He waits a moment longer, lingering, before he slides out of bed and pulls the furs up around Geralt. He lifts his head and growls softly, brows furrowed. Jaskier smiles and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Just a moment, I’m getting you a drink.”

Jaskier fills two cups with water, drinking his quickly, and grabs the bag of dried fruit he’d bought for the road. Geralt is leaning against the headboard, watching him with a hazy, blissed-out smile on his face. Jaskier slides back into bed and Geralt leans into him.

“How do you feel?”  
“Good.” His voice is raspier than usual, worn ragged. He shifts to rest is head against his shoulder. “Drunk. A bit sore.”

“Here, drink.” Jaskier holds the cup to his lips, knowing Geralt won’t like how unsteady his hands are at the moment. He drains the cup and Jaskier trades it for the fruit. He feeds him a few pieces before Geralt starts struggling to keep his eyes open. Jaskier sets the bag aside and shifts until they’re lying down, Geralt’s head pressed to the crook of his neck and his arms wrapped around his waist. The witcher falls asleep in moments, and his poet quickly follows him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt begin to explore BDSM, there's some power play (being made to say please) and choking.  
> There is no violence in this chapter.
> 
> This is my first time writing smut, so please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt wakes alone, and he’ll deny the spike of panic it brings till the day he dies. The sheets are still warm, and steam fills his lungs. Geralt pushes himself to his elbows, feeling the pull of well-used muscles. Jaskier is perched on the edge of a tub he must have had brought up while Geralt slept. The candlelight catches in water vapor like glitter―like magic. Geralt could swear the man was a siren, the way he is drawn to him by the sound of low humming, the smell of sweat and cedar, the sight of him pale gold in the flickering light. Jaskier turns to him, a soft smile dancing onto his face. He holds out a hand, water dripping from his fingertips.

“Come join me.”

Geralt’s hands have always been larger, but now he feels the strength in the poet’s own, in the already fading amethyst around his neck. Delicate fingers, hard calluses, blunt nails. He wants to ask if Jaskier will put those marks back, make them last forever.

Jaskier guides him into the tub, slipping in behind him. The water smells like chamomile. He runs hands slick with soap across his back and shoulders. Geralt catches himself leaning into the touch.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” It comes out gruffer than he’d intended. 

“I want to.” Jaskier presses a kiss between his shoulder blades. “And I sort of do need to do it.”

Geralt twists around to face him. “I’m far from delicate. I won’t break just ‘cause you got a little rough.”

“I know that.” Jaskier hasn’t stopped touching him. “I want this to be good for you, from beginning to end. Whenever that happens to be. If you’d like it to be now, that’s alright. Otherwise, turn back around, I’m going to wash your hair.”

Geralt turns around.

The bard’s fingers find his scalp, massaging away the lingering ache. “I’m not wrong in thinking you liked this, right?” Geralt almost laughs, before Jaskier’s thumb slips lower and traces the edge of a bruise. He feels like that deserves an honest answer, and like this—facing away, warm, and sore, with Jaskier’s hands on him—he feels like he can give one.

“I do. I like all of it.”  
Jaskier presses his face into his back, letting him feel the smile he can’t see. Geralt gives a little more.

“I’d like to do it again if you...like it too.”

“I do.” There’s a comb, undoing weeks of travel with a firm yet careful hand. “I like all of it too. The being with you and the being  _ with  _ you, and,” Jaskier lets the comb catch and pulls, a steady burn against Geralt’s scalp that has him leaning back, not to escape it but to be closer to the touch. “This.” Jaskier lets go and Geralt breaths in unsteadily.

“But.”

_ But, but, but what?  _ If not for all of this _ , _ Geralt would expect his next words to be something like: “it would never work,” or “we’re not the same,” or “you can’t love.” He tenses despite himself, despite Jaskier.

The bard sets aside the comb to run his fingers through his snowy hair instead. “But we need to talk about it before doing something like  _ this  _ again. I normally wouldn’t have, the first time, but gods, you have a way of making me forget myself.”

“So there will be a second time?”

“Whenever you want.” Geralt looks over his shoulder at him, an eyebrow raised. Jaskier swats his shoulder. “Talk first. Sex later.”

“Hmm.”

He feels the expansion of the bard’s chest as he steels himself. “Geralt, have you ever taken a submissive role before?”

“If you’re asking if you were my first-”

“No, I don’t mean bottoming. I mean the choking, the power play.”

Geralt flushes, suddenly wanting to retreat from the conversation. When Jaskier puts a fine point on it, he realizes how ridiculous they must look. A witcher, the Butcher of Balviken, easily twice the size of his companion, lying between a pretty young poet’s legs, his handprint on his throat and hips. Talking about relationships and power, as if Geralt was just another man, as if he couldn't kill Jaskier as easily as breathing.

Jaskier wraps his arms around him, pulling Geralt back to lean against him. He spreads his hand over Geralt's slow beating heart, feeling the inhumanity of him.

"I just don't want to hurt you, Geralt."

He barks a laugh. It was as if the bard had read his mind. "I don't think I'm the one who needs to be afraid of getting hurt."

"There are more ways to get hurt than to be bested in battle, my white wolf. If I did something that gave you the wrong kind of pain, if I didn’t know that you wanted to stop when you did, if you disappeared for months without telling me where you’re going."

Geralt presses his eyes shut. It wasn’t as though the thought of something happening to the poet when he wasn’t there was a new fear, but the terror was keenly sharper now than it had been before.

"Hey, Geralt. None of that." Jaskier brings his legs up to circle his waist in his strong thighs and pulls him back flush against his body. Geralt hadn't realized he'd pulled away. "You know I’ll come back to you. We’re both prone to wander, but I’ll always wander back."

"Hmm."

"What aren't you saying?"

"I can't let you make a promise you’ll regret when you remember what I am in the morning."

Jaskier doesn't respond for a long moment. Then he moves, and Geralt is afraid that he's going to leave, now that he understands, that he's going to get his clothes and his lute and be gone by morning.  _ When he goes, I won't follow him. I'll let him go.  _ Awkward limbs splash cooling water to the floor as Jaskier climbs around to settle in Geralt's lap. He holds his face with those long callused fingers, feeling stubble and the suggestion of a scar running from just above his ear to the edge of his jaw.

“Geralt of Rivia, I’ve been following you for two decades and I’m not about to stop now. I said I like being with you and that has nothing to do with the sex. If you never wanted to touch me again I’d still like being with you, because I lo-”

They freeze. Geralt’s eyes track a water droplet that slips down Jaskier’s cheek onto his top lip, catching there. He wants to kiss it away.

“I love you, Geralt. Sorry.” Jaskier doesn’t sound very sorry.

"I can't need you." Geralt does sound sorry, heartbreakingly so.

"I'll settle for you wanting me. Can you do that?" His question is genuine and without accusation.

Geralt kisses him, licking away that drop of water and tasting only the honey sweetness that is Jaskier. They part gasping for breath. Jaskier rises to his knees above him, water sliding off him in golden sheets as Geralt puts steadying hands on his hips. The bard’s hands are back in his hair, pushing the strands away from his face. Golden eyes meeting quicksilver blue.

Geralt smiles. “You know, you say my name a lot.”

“I know. Sometimes it feels like you get lost.” Jaskier presses a kiss to his temple. “In here.” He speaks the rest of his words against his skin. “I want you to remember who I’m talking to every time I say how beautiful you are.” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier laughs, bright like bells.

"Are we done yet?" Geralt presses his hips against the poet’s. "Because I think I was promised a reward."

"And you’ve been very good for it.” Geralt feels warm at the praise and knows his pale skin will certainly give him away. His bard smirks and he knows he’s been caught. Jaskier files it away for later and pulls back enough to meet his gaze. “Last thing, for now. I want a word. Something either of us could say if we need to stop or take a break. It has to be something you'd never say, something that would stick out."

"Cintra?"

"Do you actually want to think about the time you left a party with a kid while we're having sex?"

"Gwent?"

"Perfect." He yanks his head back by his hair and kisses him bitingly. By the time he pulls away, Geralt is half-hard and breathing heavy. "Get on the bed on your knees. Hands behind your back."

Geralt quirks an eyebrow even as he stands to do as commanded. "Yes sir," he says, meaning it mockingly but it doesn't quite come out that way.

Jaskier grins. "Oh, I like that. We're keeping that."

Geralt chooses to face away from him, eyes trained on the headboard, just for that. He spreads his knees a bit for balance and crosses his wrists behind his back. Jaskier waits until he's settled before following him to the bed. The poet rakes his eyes across his muscular back. In the light of the rekindled fire, he can more clearly see the scars that criss-cross it. Four jagged lines run parallel over his shoulder and down across his scapula, claw marks. He wonders if they go with the bite mark lower on his side or if either was related to the lines, ten of them, that randomly cut across his spine. They've healed ropey and uneven and water beads along them. He wonders if Geralt had to try to care for them himself after he'd killed whoever had whipped him. He doesn't ask.

Geralt is tense under his gaze, uneasy in the submission that had come so naturally before. Jaskier brushes aside his hair and grips the back of his neck. There's no risk here, but the body's adrenaline response is similar to when actually choked. He pushes him forward sharply. Geralt topples over, shoulders pressed into the mattress and ass on display. He turns his head to the side so he can breathe, but is otherwise perfectly still.

Jaskier leans over him, pressing them together from hip to shoulder. "I saw your hands jump. I'm so proud of you for not moving." His cock slides asking the cleft of his ass, skin still wet from the bath. Jaskier rocks his hips in small circles, feeling his arousal build.

He can't see Geralt's face clearly through the veil of hair, but the flush spreading down his neck makes up for it. Jaskier reaches around him, gripping his cock. He runs his palm over the head, smearing precome along his length. He strokes him to full hardness. Geralt's hands clench at nothing as he resists thrusting into the touch, still crossed behind him and pinned in place by Jaskier's weight.

Jaskier leans back, and Geralt feels suddenly cold without the poet draped across him. Jaskier kneels behind him. He trails his fingertips down his sides and thighs before he digs into the muscle there hard enough to bruise. Without warning, Jaskier dips his head and presses a gentle kiss to the pucker of his hole. Geralt gasps, surprised and aroused in equal parts. Jaskier’s tongue is just as talented as his fingers and he proves it eagerly, licking and nipping at the still sensitive skin before teasingly pushing the tip of his tongue past the ring of muscle. Geralt shakes with the effort it takes to keep still and not press back into the sensation.

Jaskier pulls back. He bites the inside of his thigh, hard.

Geralt pants, “Jaskier, please fuck me already.”

“I thought I was in charge here,” he says lightly, already reaching for the oil where they’d left it before. Jaskier slicks himself up and pushed in to the hilt in one quick motion. Geralt next words are cut off by a groan.

Jaskier pounds into him hard and fast, Geralt's face pressing into the bed with the force of it. Jaskier grabs his hair, pulling him upright by it. Geralt struggles to keep his balance. He spreads his knees wider, and the new angle has Jaskier hitting that spot in a way that makes his head spin.

"Hands on the headboard." Geralt complies quickly, knuckles white around the wood. "I wonder," Jaskier is as breathless as he is, panting against his ear, "if I could make you come just like this." He grinds his hips against his ass. "From my cock alone."

Geralt groans, "Fuck."

Jaskier kisses his shoulder. "We'll get there. Maybe next time."

It might be Jaskier's clever hand on his aching cock, it might be his sudden realization that Jaskier meant what he'd said earlier and there  _ would _ be a next time. Geralt comes hard across his chest. Jaskier grabs his hips and snaps into him roughly, once, twice. He bites Geralt's shoulder to muffle his shout as he comes.

They fall to the bed, Jaskier blanketing Geralt with his body. It's comfortable, and Geralt wishes they could simply stay like that, with Jaskier keeping him in his own body, in the moment, reminding him there is someone to share it with.

The candles have long burned out but Geralt’s vision is near perfect even in the dark. Jaskier is sound asleep, his breath even and deep against Geralt’s chest.

“I love you.” Geralt rolls the words around his mouth, tasting them on the tip of his tongue, feeling how they reverberate in his chest. They feel right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More powerplay, Jaskier commanding Geralt to be still.  
> No violence.


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt had thought about running, the morning after that first night. He'd thought about jumping on Roach and never setting foot in another tavern or inn again so he'd never have to face the poet. Then Jaskier has shifted, curling closer to him in his sleep, and Geralt decided to stay. It's nearly a year later, and while they're far from joined at the hip, Geralt hasn't run yet. He hasn't pushed him away either, not long or far enough that he hasn’t come back quickly.

It’s been a year since that night in that tavern and life on the continent has continued without notice. Nilfgaard’s push north has gained ground, smashing through defending armies and pushing refugees ahead of it. Jaskier and Geralt have wound their way through woods and towns and the occasional city, staying just ahead of it all. That loneliness, once dogged at their heels, has retreated further with every new way they find to fit together. Jaskier revels in shared bedrolls, sitting pressed together by the fire, being able to cling to his witcher after every battle just to feel his slow and steady heartbeat.

He’s written so many songs he can never share. Geralt gentle, Geralt protective, Geralt pliant and pleading. Songs that Geralt has slowly learned aren’t flattery, just love. Jaskier has almost come to prefer the freedom of the road over towns where they have to be more cautious. There wasn’t exactly a risk of being harmed, Geralt could more than handle angry townspeople, but it would destroy both their careers.

That said, it’s been a week without a bath because drought has shrunk all the creeks to trickles and they’re both desperate to free themselves of the layer of dust that’s coated them. Geralt’s hair looks more khaki than white. When they finally come across something larger than an abandoned homestead, they’ve barely enough coin for a room in the cheapest inn and a meal to split between them in the tavern below.

As the sun sets and the tavern begins to fill, Jaskier begins tuning his lute.

“I wouldn’t expect much from this crowd.” Geralt says, scanning the room. He’s right, it’s a ragged bunch, not likely to have any more spare coin than the witcher and his bard.

“Maybe I can get breakfast on the house.” Jaskier plays a chord, testing the strings. “Besides, I’ve gone too long without an adoring crowd.” He grins, sharp and predatory. “I’m starving, Geralt.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sips his ale to hide the smile threatening to make itself known.

People have begun to notice the bard in their midst, heads turning and voices calling, hopeful for a song.

Jaskier strolls to the center of the room. Bodies orient to him like iron filings to a magnet. He starts slow and approachable, with folk songs and fishing tunes, before launching into his most recent ballad of their adventures, and follows with a jig. He finishes, as always, with “Toss a coin,” and as always the crowd adds their voices to his, confident through the chorus and enthusiastic through the verses. Rather fewer coins than hoped for are tossed, but the ale flows freely and Jaskier is glowing. Geralt could watch him in his element forever, fingers never faltering as he slides between feet and tables, weaving his spell. 

Jaskier drops back onto the bench beside him. “I’m tired. Come back to the room with me?” he murmurs, leaning in close. His eyes shine with mischief and liquor, and Geralt is weak to it.

There’s a general groan of dismay as Jaskier makes his way up the stairs. He pauses at the top, stepping away from Geralt’s steadying hand to give a sweeping bow. Geralt rolls his eyes and drags him into their room.

As soon as the door is closed, Jaskier spins them around and crowds Geralt against it. He trails kisses, first biting then gentle, along his stubbled jaw.

**“** I’m not drunk, that swill is barely alcoholic.” He kisses the shell of Geralt’s ear. 

“Is that your way of asking if I want to play?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“What do you think, sir?” Jaskier feels the words as much as he hears them, vibrating through his chest. He pulls Geralt from the wall and pushes him towards the bed. He sits on the edge, an uncertain expression crossing his face.

"Would you hit me, like we talked about, sir?" Jaskier loves that he's able to ask so comfortably now for what he wants, but his chest tightness with nerves at the request, the high of performing leaving him in a rush. They had talked about it, at length. In very great detail. It had seemed like a good idea then, but suddenly nothing sounded worse.

"Whatever you want, love."

He can do this, if it's what Geralt wants, what he needs tonight. Jaskier guides Geralt to lay across his thighs, pert ass on display. Jaskier runs his hand across the soft skin, then brings his palm down hard before he can overthink it. Geralt moans, arching into the burn. He strikes him again, leaving reddening mark at the crease of his thigh. Again, twice quickly in the same place. Geralt bites back a shout at the mingling of sharper pain and a deeper ache. Jaskier's breath comes quick and shallow as he tries to kiss his hands steady. Another blow. His hand tingles with the force of it. He can tell Geralt's slipping, body lax across his legs and breathing slow and deep in time with his strikes. Just a little longer, and he'll reach that place, and Jaskier can stop. He hesitates, hand raised. Geralt arches his back encouragingly.  _ He likes it, he wants it.  _ He's hesitated too long, and Geralt twists to look at him over his shoulder, concern returning the lines to his brow.

"Jaskier?"

"I… Gwent."

Geralt is up in a flash, kneeling before Jaskier. He runs his hands up and down his thighs, soothingly. "Jaskier, it's okay, I'm okay."

"I know, I know." He bends and pressed his forehead to Geralt's crown. His breath hitches as he tries to rein in his emotions. "I just can't. I'm sorry. I know you like it."

"It's alright. Here." Geralt tucks an arm under his knees and picks him up, settling them on the bed with the poet in his lap. Jaskier tucks his face into the crook of his neck. He wraps his shaking arms around his neck, thumb pressed lightly against his slow pulse. Geralt kisses his hair. "I don't like it if you don't."

"You look so pretty like that," Jaskier whines and Geralt huffs. "I just can't hit you."

"You don't have to."

Geralt doesn't ask for an explanation. It's obvious enough that the story isn't a pleasant one. After a moment, when his breathing is steady, Jaskier volunteers one anyway.

"I never followed my father's plan for me. Marry well, produce a convenient number of heirs. Look at me now, a traveling minstrel, living in sin with a Witcher." He kisses a fading bruise, a mark he'd left on Geralt's neck the night before, softening his biting tone. "What would he think."

"I don't give a damn. I'm glad you're here, living in sin with me.” Geralt pulls him impossibly tighter against his chest. “His loss if he couldn't appreciate the man you are."

His phrasing twists something in Jaskier's chest. He wants to tell him. He trusts him. "Geralt…" He tips his head back to meets his eyes.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing." Jaskier hides his face again, frustrated by his own fear. "Thank you."

...

The next morning, Geralt checks the notice board in town while Jaskier sleeps, emotionally and physically exhausted from their travel. It’s mostly nothing, advertisements and requests for help putting up a barn. One stick out, written on heavier paper and the looping script of the well educated, marked with the mayors sail. Two people dead, another missing, near the foot of the mountain looming over the little city. They believed it to be monstrous, rather than human foul play. Geralt tears it from the board and heads back to the inn.

Jaskier is dressed and waiting for him, perched on the bed scribbling in a notebook.

He looks up as Geralt enters. “Any luck?”

“Might be.” He offers him the posting and Jaskier reads it quickly.

“Sounds about right. I take it we’re heading to the town hall, then?”

Geralt grunts in the affirmative. “Need to see what else they can tell me before heading out.”

“Let me finish this.” He nods to the table beside the bed. “I got you breakfast, you should eat now if you’re planning on killing things later.”

Geralt eats quickly. It’s almost domestic, in a way that suits the two of them perfectly. Jaskier tucks away his notebook as he finishes and they head out.

The streets are noisier and dustier than either of them are pleased by. Geralt’s head spins a bit with the sudden sensory input, overwhelming after the peace of the road and their room. He breathes deeply and focuses on Jaskier as they make their way through the bustling center. He can manage on his own, has for years, but having Jaskier at his side makes dealing with people and crowded places less taxing. The town hall is the largest building. It doesn’t take much more than pulling his hood down and mentioning the posting to get ushered into the mayor’s office by an aid that might just be overworked or might be eager to put a set of closed doors between himself and a witcher.

The mayor is an old man, thin and balding with waxy skin. He’s as flustered as his aid and half as competent, but they manage to drag out of him that two bodies had been found, hunters, their torsos picked clean of flesh and organs missing. Nothing so neat as to suggest a clear culprit, beyond a hungry one. There had been a third with their party, but no sign of him. It was vague, but Geralt had worked with less before. Most likely, it was a griffin, or something similar, due to a lack of tracks at the scene. With the drought, scarcer prey must have pushed it down from the mountain. There’s a cave system about halfway up, the most likely bet for a nest in a region known for harsh winds. Checking the woods where the bodies were found themselves doesn’t give them much more information, just a new rip in Jaskier’s new doublet.

They set out at dusk, Geralt’s bag packed with potions for whatever they might encounter and the dagger he insists Jaskier carry strapped to his thigh. His first instinct in a fight remains to call for the witcher, and he’s half-convinced Geralt only makes him wear it because it is, admittedly, a good look. Geralt parks him and Roach at the edge of a clearing just below the caves.

“I’m not sure what I’ll find, so stay here.” He pats Roach’s nose before handing the reins to Jaskier. “Don’t come after me. No song is worth getting eaten.”

Jaskier tilts his head, pretending to consider it until he can’t resist and kisses the scowl from Geralt’s face. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. Jaskier pushes a hand against his chest. “Go, do your hero-ing. I’ll be waiting right here for you to come sweep me off my feet.”

Geralt relaxes further at the promise to stay put. He turns away, swords glinting in the setting sun. Jaskier catches him by the shoulder and spins him back around. He kisses him, slow and lingering.

“Be careful.” He doesn’t say  _ be safe.  _ It wouldn’t be fair to ask that.

Geralt nods and fades away into the shadows.

This is one of the worst parts of loving a witcher, Jaskier has found. The waiting. The leaning against Roach, ears straining for every sound of threat or battle. The knowing Geralt could be dead already and he won’t know until it’s been too long and he goes looking; that he likely couldn’t have helped if he’d been there, just another useless thing for Geralt to protect. Jaskier likes being an optimistic man. He’s not one to linger in the darker parts of his mind. On these nights, it’s hard to keep away from them. He craves his lute, something to keep his hands and mind busy, but the scar on his thigh has proven that’s a bad idea. 

There’s a shriek from the above that definitely isn’t Geralt, followed closely by a scream that definitely is, and a thud that could be either him or the creature. Jaskier is well acquainted with all of Geralt’s noises: the grunts, and growls and shouts. He’s never heard him scream before. Jaskier grips Roach's reins tight and runs. He might need her to get Geralt out if he can't walk. Geralt is lying face-up, his body from the waist down pinned by the thing’s corpse. It’s almost human, too long limbs ending in clawed talons and ragged wings sprouting from its back. Not a griffin.

Geralt’s shoulder is a bloody mess of torn flesh and leather. Jaskier looks away, focusing on getting him free. He grabs the creature by the wings and pulls, avoiding the silver sword driven through it’s gaping bloodstained beak. It's lighter than he expected, built for flight, and he manages without too much effort. Geralt groans as the movement pulls at his wounds, eyes searching behind half-mast lids.

“Jas?” His voice is wet and strained, his lips stained red.

“I’m here, let me look, let me look.” Jaskier’s hands fly across buckles and ties, pulling layers of ruined armor away until he can see dark linen and pale skin. He has to breathe carefully or he might be sick. There’s a chunk of Geralt missing. The muscle is torn away from the bone, exposing his splintered collarbone and the deeper tendons of his shoulder. The edges of the wound are beginning to blacken with necrosis. Geralt’s veins stand out in sharp contrast against pallid skin as his body struggles to process the toxin. The pool of blood beneath him is growing much faster than even a witcher can handle. Geralt's slower heartbeat meant he usually didn't bleed this much. The thing must have hit an artery. Jaskier tears himself away to rifle through Roach's saddlebags. He finds a bandage and the last of Geralt's black potions and pulls the cork from the bottle with his teeth, hands too shaky for the task. He pours half into the wound, as he’s seen the witcher do before. The viscous liquid drips down the protruding bone and Geralt gasps, neck arching with the sharp burn of it. Jaskier cups his head and pours the rest down his throat. It seems to help with the pain, although he might just be losing consciousness. Jaskier wants to cradle his head in his lap, to calm him with fingers across his brow and hair. He does his best to brush the dirt off his hands and mutters a low apology. He pressed the bandage to the wound, trying to soak up enough blood to find the artery. Geralt groans, bucking weakly against him.

“Shh, lie still. Fuck." Even if he stops the bleeding, his witcher won't survive this. Not without help that he can't give him. "Geralt, I need you to call Yennefer.” He finds the artery, spurting blood from between splinters of bone. "Fuck, I'm sorry." Jaskier pushes his hand further into the wound, trying to not do more damage, and presses the soaked bandage against it. Geralt's exhale becomes a keening whine. “Yennefer, Geralt.”

“Yen?” He sounds exhausted, drunk, slurring his words.

“Yes. Yen, you need to picture her.”  _ Gods, I hope this works. _ “Violet eyes, dark hair, never dressed for the occasion. Help her find us.”

Geralt’s eyes are unfocused. Jaskier can tell he’s fighting to stay awake but he doesn’t last long. Unconsciousness claims him, and Jaskier is left with his dying lover, the hope that the sorceress is still keeping tabs on Geralt, and a horse.

He presses a kiss to his clammy forehead. “Come on, love. You’ll be okay.”

“What did you just call him?”

Jaskier’s chest pulls tight with a new wave of terror. Yennefer looks like she always has: beautiful, dangerous, and scornful.

He sets his jaw and says, “I called him love. Are you going to let him die, or will you help us?” Jaskier hates how it sounds like a question instead of the challenge he’d meant it to be.

“Of course I’ll help.” She kneels next to Geralt and the poet sees the moment she realizes he wasn’t being hyperbolic. Her face pales and her eyes widen. Yennefer presses her hands against the wound, her palms together only just covering it. He slides his hand out from under hers, leaving the bandage where it is. Jaskier watches with bated breath as she chants quietly in Elder. Time slips away as she works. He figures it’s too late to hide it, and runs his hands through Geralt’s hair, streaking in white strands with rusty red. He doesn’t care. If Geralt survives, he’ll wash it with the best oils he can find.

Yennefer looks up after what was probably no more than ten minutes. She looks drawn, but the bleeding has stopped and the blackness doesn’t seem to be spreading.

“We need to get him back to my place, I can’t fix this here.”

They haul Geralt to his feet. Jaskier is grateful, as he tucks his shoulder under Geralt’s ruined side, that he’s already unconscious. Supporting him between himself and Roach, they follow Yennefer through a portal. 

It's colder, and more forested where they stepped out, clearly much further north. Yennefer comes around to support Geralt’s other side and they drag him into the small cottage. It’s thankfully only one story, a kitchen with a long wooden table and roaring fire taking up most of the floor space. Yennefer nods towards a door at the back of the room.

“In there.”

Geralt’s boots catch on the wooden floor, his body limp between them. They lay him across the bed as gently as they can, still smearing blood across the linens.

“Now get out.” Her voice isn’t unkind but brooks no argument. “I need to focus.”

“Right.” Jaskier stumbles from the room, the door slamming shut of its own accord behind him.

Jaskier drops bonelessly into one of the two chairs facing the fire. He presses his hands against his face and feels dried blood flake off against his skin. He wretches, just barely grabbing the bucket by the fire before throwing up. Jaskier spits and can’t stop the sobs that leave him shaking, curled over his knees. He tries to be quiet. Yennefer needs to focus. He presses his eyes shut and all he can see is Geralt’s face, slack and white and cold from blood loss. He’d realized long ago that they wouldn’t grow old together. It was supposed to be him that went first, old and grey, with an enduring legacy, peacefully in his bed. He knows the danger of a witcher’s life. It’s just never been so real.  _ Witchers don’t retire. _ Geralt had told him that. He’d tried to warn him. Jaskier cries until he can’t anymore. He feels worse than before.

He drags himself outside and wanders around the house until he finds the water pump. There’s snow on the ground, but he doesn’t care as he drops to his knees. The water burns, it’s so cold, and it runs red over his hands. Jaskier scrubs until his skin is raw. Some of Geralt’s blood is still trapped under his fingernails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They try spanking, having discussed it ahead of time, but Jaskier safewords, reminded of his father's abuse.
> 
> Geralt is mauled by a harpy, his shoulder significantly damaged. Jaskier throws up once he's being healed by Yennefer.


	4. Chapter 4

The moon is high in the sky by the time Yennefer emerges. Jaskier looks up as she leans against the doorframe. Her hands and dress are bloody, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

“He’ll live, I was able to repair most of the damage. He just needs rest, now.” Her makeup is smudged from where she's dragged her hands across her face, but it doesn’t hide the dark bags under her eyes.

“So do you.” Jaskier realizes he must not look much better than she does at the judgemental once over she gives him.

“I’ve only got the one bed. I’ll sleep out here.” She starts towards the chair opposite his.

“Oh no, absolutely not.” It might be exhaustion making him reckless, it might be relief. Jaskier pushes past her, grabbing her arm as he goes and pulling her behind him. The room isn’t large, just a bed, a dresser, and a small table. In the low light of the hearth at the foot of the bed, Geralt looks like he could be carved of stone. Jaskier perches on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. Yennefer has cleaned up most of the blood, revealing the dark bruises scattered across his cool skin, a painting of red, yellow, green and purple, new cuts and old scars. His hands shake slightly with the adrenaline come down as Jaskier presses his palms against Geralt’s bare chest. He feels it moving slightly beneath them. Jaskier leans their foreheads together, breathing in time with him. His jaw aches from the tension he’d held there. They stay like that for a long moment, and Jaskier pretends that it is just any other night when Geralt falls asleep before him, safe and relaxed.

The creak of the wooden floor draws him back to the room. Jaskier pulls back and almost feels bad for having turned away from Yennefer. The mage looks as though she were torn between fleeing the room and throwing him aside to reassure herself of Geralt’s wellbeing. She looks unsteady and, he realizes suddenly, she looks vulnerable. In their few meetings since the first, Jaskier has mostly overcome his fear of her. She won’t hurt him, both because she isn’t cruel for all she may be harsh, and also because Geralt cares for him. Relations had been cold between them, and vulnerable was just about the worst word he could have thought of to describe her. And yet.

Jaskier holds his hand out to her. Yennefer approaches him slowly, as one would approach a skittish animal. He takes her hand and presses it over Geralt’s heart, the warmth of his own skin still lingering on his.

“Thank you.” His voice is heavy and his words sincere. She doesn’t need to respond, so she doesn’t. They sit there together, feeling the fact that Geralt is alive until they believe it. As the fire burns low, Yennefer curls against his good side. Jaskier tucks a blanket around them and leans against the footboard of the bed, his hand on Geralt’s ankle. He isn’t planning on resting, but as the sun breaks through the trees, his head dips against his chest and he follows her and his witcher into sleep.

Yennefer wakes late in the morning. Geralt’s body is finally, blessedly, warm against her side. Jaskier is soundly asleep at the foot of the bed. One of his hands fists the furs pulled around him, the other is curled around Geralt’s leg. At some point, her legs had tangled with his, pressed together from knee to ankle. Yennefer pointedly doesn’t think about how she finally feels warm here, between the two of them. How Jaskier, the weakest among the three, had sat up late into the night watching over them. She doesn’t think about how it’s his lover that’s she’s curled against, and that he had tucked them in. She just presses her forehead against Geralt’s shoulder, and lets sleep take her once more.

Jaskier’s neck aches when he finally wakes. He stretches, careful to not wake the two still sleeping, black and white hair mingling on the sheets. There’s an easy balance to them that’s only apparent when they don’t think about it. Every time they do, they overbalance and it tips. Jaskier wonders what will happen when Geralt wakes up.

He slides from the bed, pulling a fur with him as he goes. Jaskier tucks it around his shoulders. He does his best to avoid making any noise as he crosses the little cabin and steps outside. Roach is where he’d left her, tied under the shelter of the roof by the door. She whinnies a soft greeting to him. Much like her master, she’s an ornery and stubborn beast but has a soft spot for the poet. It was the sugar cubes, but he’d never tell Geralt that. He’d much rather the man just think him a horse whisperer. Jaskier fishes a treat from his bag and feeds it to her.

There is something undeniably soothing about the horse, once she’d stopped trying to kick him. Jaskier can see why Geralt talked to her. She didn’t judge. Or rather, she judged, but if she wasn’t trying to trample you, she also forgave. She was straightforward in a way little was. Jaskier leans against her side.

“I think I’d make a rather fine horse. What do you think, girl?”  
She snorts.

“I think I’d make a dashing stallion. I’d be fast, and my coat would be so shiny. Not as shiny as yours, of course. Things would be simpler. Not knowing what a witcher is, or a sorceress. They just make things so damn complicated.”

Roach shoves him towards the door.

“Yeah, you’re right. Probably wouldn’t help at all. You’re stuck with us, after all. Thanks, girl.” He feeds her another sugar cube. “I’ll see if Yennefer has anything more I can feed you. I’ll get you some water, at least.” Jaskier gives her one last pat and slips back inside, a fair bit more settled than before.

The two of them fall into a sort of routine. Jaskier makes breakfast, and cares for Roach. Yennefer does what she can to speed Geralt’s healing, and makes dinner. They talk. About nothing that edges towards something. He plays his songs and when she asks he tells the true stories behind them. She matches him blow for blow in verbal sparring matches, and more than once Jaskier finds himself lunging for a pen to write down a particularly clever bit. Eventually, he starts asking questions of his own. Where are you from? How did you learn magic? She answers in half-truths that they both can clearly see the edges of, and he doesn’t push. He’s glad for the half of the truth she’s given. He drags a chair into the bedroom and sleeps there, always ending up with a hand wound in the blankets, for the second night. After that, Yennefer makes some comment about how she can’t have him falling ill as well and insists that they take turns. If she finds herself leaning towards them in her sleep, it’s no one’s business but hers. After four days, Geralt wakes up.

Jaskier sits up in bed, looks at him, and bursts into tears. This wakes Yennefer, who hurries around to help Geralt upright. He’s weak from so long in bed, and his shoulder won’t be what it was for a long time, if ever. He wraps his arms around the poet and holds him as tightly as he can. Yennefer stays put, supporting him.

“Don’t,” Jaskier hiccups. “Ever fucking do that again.” He pulls back and kisses him soundly.

“I’ll do my best.” Geralt’s voice is like old parchment, dry and raspy.

“Here,” Yennefer holds a cup of water from the bedside table to his lips. “Drink.”

He does, slowly draining the cup. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Four days.” Jaskier hasn’t let go of him and doesn’t seem to plan on doing so any time soon.  
“Fuck.”

“Well said.” Yennefer seems no more likely to move. Getting up seems like far more effort than it would be worth, really, so Geralt settles back down and lets their warmth, the smell of cedar and gooseberries, lull him back to sleep. 

It’s another two days before Geralt is up and about. Snow is beginning to fall, and if they hope to make it through the pass to Oxenfurt as they’d planned before the harpy, they’ll have to leave soon. Jaskier has gone to ready Roach when Yennefer corners Geralt at the table with the promise of wine.

"Why do you love him?' The question surprises him. Her tone, even and non-accusatory, surprises him even more.   
"Yen it's...he's complicated."  
"I can handle complicated."  
Geralt grunts, "It. He. Everyone always asks about the scars."

He could mean any number of things by that, Yennefer knows the map of lines on his skin like she knows the color of her own eyes. He lays one arm on the table between them, palm up, and it almost looks like he's reaching out to her. He doesn't roll up his sleeve, he doesn't have to. Yennefer mirrors him. She knows the marks on his skin like she knows the marks on her own.

"He has never asked. He doesn't trace them and he doesn't avoid them. All of this, it's just another piece of me to him, it's not all of me."

He doesn't just mean the scars, he means how he came about them. He means every battle, every curse, every time he is called a monster and hears it echo in his mind. It's not all he is, to Jaskier.  
“Hmm."  
Geralt smiles. "That’s my line.”

“Shut up.” She drains her wine and leans her head on her hand. “What will you do now?”

“Not sure, exactly. We’re thinking of heading to Oxenfurt for the winter. Jaskier has an invitation to lecture at the university, and there’s always work in the city. What are you doing, all the way out here?” The work in the city is mostly hunting vermin, but the terror he’d seen on Jaskier’s face was enough to make him take it easy for a time.

She shrugs. “A bit of this and that. I’d been thinking of going to Oxenfurt myself. Triss has set up shop there, it would be good to see her again.”

The door slams shut behind Jaskier. “Come find us, when you’re there.”

She smiles at him. “I’ll expect new material.”

“But of course! I’m sure he’ll have done something horribly foolish by then.”

Geralt looks between the two of them. “What exactly happened while I was asleep?”

“I told her about last winter when you and Lambert-”

“You didn’t.”  
“He did. And I told him about the canoe.”

Geralt buries his face in his hands, muffling his words. “You two being friends will be the death of me.”

Yennefer laughs. “Covetous, Geralt, keeping him all to yourself.” She stands, and Geralt pretends not to see how she hovers as he does the same, following him to the door. “Be careful, don’t go undoing all my hard work.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He tips his head mockingly.

“Oh, I like that.” She kisses his cheek and pushes him lightly towards Jaskier. “Don’t keep your poet waiting.”

“Be well, Yen.” Geralt is half expecting him to get snapped at for the nickname, but she shocks him again. Yennefer grabs Jaskier by the shirt and kisses him full on the mouth.

She pulls away breathing hard. “I had to do it once. Keep him in one piece until I see you next.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His smile is half cocky, half-stunned as they mount Roach and set out.

Geralt digs an elbow into his side. “When I said you might like her if you let yourself, I wasn’t expecting you to like her quite this much.”

“What is it you said once? Opposites attract?”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm indeed.”

It isn't exactly planned, but Geralt, Jaskier, and Yennefer spend most of the winter living in each other's pockets. She comes to Oxenfurt as promised. Over dinner, Jaskier successfully convinces her to sit in on his next lecture or maybe Geralt manages to convince her that his misery deserves company, but either way, she's there in the back row the next day. Jaskier buys them drinks in a not so subtle thank you afterward, and she complains about the lack of accuracy in his student's work. Geralt says, "If you care so much, why don't you teach?" And by the end of the night, Jaskier has two guest lecturers scheduled for a special seminar.

Every literature student wants to be there, and the lucky ones who got a seat leave with their heads spinning and more material than they could ever write. They're evenly divided on which combination of their lecturers are sleeping together. Jaskier nearly cries with laughter when the first thinly veiled ballad crosses his desk. This, of course, necessitates another night in the tavern featuring a dramatic reading and a lot of alcohol, which in turn leads to Jaskier's own rendition of the same ballad.

Triss by then has stumbled upon a half complete elixir recipe from before the purge, and Yennefer simply must stay to help her complete it. With their help, Geralt has regained nearly full use of his shoulder. Although neither would admit it, both mage and poet worry when he's gone more than a day hunting. Jaskier is careful to not let it show.

He knows Geralt chafes against the crowds and structure of the city, bearing it mostly for his sake. Within the university, in their own apartment, there's more freedom than they'd have in the rural towns they often found themselves in, but it's nowhere near the uninhibited life they live on the road. Jaskier pushes limits. He lets crowded streets justify how he leans into Geralt, how his hand always seems to find his elbow. Packed taverns are an excuse to sit close enough their thighs press against each other, hands finding each other beneath the table.

Yennefer has saved them more than once, a woman's presence excusing their table tucked away in the corner, their shared apartment. Jaskier wonders sometimes who they assume she's with. Does a powerful mage make more sense with an unfeeling witcher or a famous bard? Or are both equally unlikely? They're not without their disagreements and hurtful words, but he'd call her a friend. Would she call him the same? There might be a ballad in that question.

Jaskier hums under his breath, keeping time with the tap of his shoes down the stone halls of the university.

A voice jumps out at him from a group of students. "It'll be the end of the lioness, I'd put money on it."

Jaskier whirls around, torn from his thoughts. He grabs the student by the arm. "What did you say?"

"Calanthe road out to meet Nilfgaard this morning. Storms along the coast mean they're without allies." He shrugs out of his grip. "What's it to you?"

"Trouble. Thanks." Jaskier is already running, down the stairs and through the main door, onto the street. Geralt could be anywhere. He'd been up and gone before Jaskier had woken, just a note informing him he'd be "out" until late. He could be looking for him all day. Yennefer, though, would be much easier to find. Triss's shop was on the same square as the literature building. Knowing her, she’ll probably accompany them to Cintra, which could only be helpful. He hurries through the crowds and bangs on the door.

"Yen! Yen I need your help!" He shouts and nearly falls over when the door is suddenly pulled open.

"What?" Yennefer glances around. "Please tell me Geralt isn't bleeding out somewhere?"

"Nope, at least I hope not. Can we talk inside?" He's already pushing past her. She huffs and shuts the door. "Hi, Triss. Can you find Geralt? I need to talk to him, right now."

"Hi, Jaskier." She gives a little wave, then turns back to her book, giving the illusion of privacy.

"Of course I can." Yennefer digs a map of the city out of the pile on the table and lays it flat. "What's so urgent that you must talk to him right this moment?" Her hand glows slightly as she passes it over the map. It dances along the streets, searching.

Jaskier has trusted her with so much, shared in little bits and pieces scattered from that cabin trying to bury their fear to quiet dinners and drunken arguments. It's easy as breathing to lay the whole story before her. The banquet, Pavetta and Duny, Geralt's child surprise. "Cintra is about to fall to Nilfgaard," he finishes, "so I'm done giving Geralt a choice when it comes to his child surprise. He'd hate himself for it if he let her die."

"I'd hate him for it, too." Yennefer looks shaken, but he sees his determination reflected in her wide violet eyes. "He's at the smith, come on." She flicks a hand, opening a portal, and drags Jaskier through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No explicit content or violence, it is hinted that Geralt has harmed himself in the past.


	5. Chapter 5

He breathes through the headrush of teleportation and spins around in search of the witcher. Geralt is deep in discussion with the smith. Jaskier recalls he'd wanted to get him a set of daggers. He'd thought he might be better with them than with the short sword he'd tried in his last attempt to teach the poet self-defense.

"Geralt!" He looks up, and Jaskier will never get used to the way his golden eyes soften at the sight of him.

"Jaskier, what are you doing here?"

"Come back to the shop, I’ll tell you there.” Geralt grunts his agreement, and steps back through the portal with him, leaving the wide-eyed smith behind. Yennefer is leaning against the table, arms crossed.

Geralt mirrors her position, crossing his arms across his chest. “What is it that couldn’t wait?”

“Cintra is going to fall," Yennefer says.

"Calanthe met them this morning with no aid,” Jaskier adds. “Skellige is trapped by storm and her other allies are beset themselves."

"She should have known better," Geral says, gruffly.

"She didn't know, or she didn't have a choice.” Jaskier is antsy, fidgeting with the edge of his doublet. “Either way, we need to be in Cintra right now."

"Fuck."

"I trust the urgency means you'll get over your distaste for portal travel?" Yennefer’s hand is already outstretched.

"You're coming?" Jaskier can’t hide how pleased he is at the idea.

"No offense, but I don't trust either of you with a child unsupervised."

"You told her?" There’s no judgment in Geralt’s question and little surprise. He’d have explained himself if the poet hadn’t already.

"Of course I told her. If we don't go your child surprise ends up dead by tomorrow, best case scenario. I figured having her along could only make things easier."

"Thank you, Jaskier. Now, shall we? I’d like to beat Calanthe back and hopefully catch one of her more level headed advisors.”

“I need to stop by our rooms first, get my armor. Then we go.”

… 

Cintra isn’t burning yet, but there’s a tension in the air that would only take one spark to light. It’s like watching the dust cloud build, knowing it could sweep in at any moment and leave nothing untouched with its filthy fingers. Mousesack meets them at the gates, looking care-worn but standing tall as ever.

“Geralt!” The druid pulls his old friend into a tight hug, and the smell of fear sticks sour at the back of Geralt’s throat. He pulls away and nods to Jaskier. “It’s good to see you both, but I’m afraid this is the worst time.”  
“I’m here for my child surprise.”

Mousesack doesn’t seem surprised. “Calanthe won’t like it.”

“Quite frankly, I don’t care,” Yennefer says, stepping between them. “Yennefer of Vengerberg. She doesn’t have to like it. She only has to have some sense.”  
“Mousesack of Skellige. What sense she has is yet to be seen. Come, this conversation is not one for the doorway.”

He leads them through twisting stone halls, far emptier than they had been when Geralt and Jaskier were last in Cintra. His study was a small room in the northern tower, strewn with books and papers. Mousesack dropped heavily into a low couch.  
“Eist is dead, and Calanthe is injured. I doubt she’ll be willing to give up the last of her family.”

“I doubt she’ll want to watch her die either,” Jaskier protests. “Calanthe is stubborn and arrogant, but she’s not selfish or stupid.”

“Love makes fools of us all. You’re a poet, you should know that.”

“I’m guessing,” Geralt says, “that you won’t let us just grab the kid and run before Calanthe returns.”

“You’d be right in that. I’d like nothing more than to see her safe, but Calanthe hasn’t fallen yet. I’ll not betray her now.”

“Her?” Geralt sounds surprised. “The child is a girl?”  
“Yes, the princess Cirilla. Have you truly paid so little attention to your child of destiny?”  
Geralt’s brow furrows. “I’d thought...Nevermind. I’d hoped to never claim her, my life isn’t exactly suited to children. I avoided the issue entirely.”

Yennefer smiles, an edge of bitterness to it. “Destiny is notoriously hard to outrun.”

“Speaking of outrunning things, exactly how far is Nilfgaard from here?” Jaskier says. “I’d rather not find Ciri only for us to all die together.”

“They’ll be here by nightfall.”

“Fuck,” Geralt sighs. “Can I meet her?”

Mousesack hums, considering.

“She’s more likely to trust us if we’ve met before it all goes to hell.” Yennefer adds.

“She doesn’t know about the law of surprise, the fight at the betrothal, any of it. I’ll have to explain first.”

“How could Calanthe keep that from her?” Jaskier snaps.

“She didn’t want to lose her,” Mousesack bites back. “Stay put, I’ll talk to her.” He leaves, the door slamming with finality behind him.

“Fuck.” Geralt drags his hands over his face. He can still taste fear, suffocatingly thick in the air. He’s dizzy with it. 

“You’ve said.” Jaskier settles on the couch and pulls him down next to him. “What’s the plan Geralt? Next steps.”

“Where are we going from here?” Yennefer leans against the desk across from them, arms crossed. “Somewhere safe and remote.”

“West.” The velvet of the couch chafes against his skin, his medallion feels like it’s gotten heavier, or the chain has gotten shorter.

Jaskier looks up at Yennefer. “Have you noticed he’s got this habit of saying a direction like it’s a destination?” He shoves his shoulder against Geralt’s and stays leaning against him. “You can’t ever get to ‘West’. A location, Geralt.”

He thinks for a moment. Somewhere safe, and remote. “Kaer Morhen. If we can make it before the snow closes the pass, there’s nowhere safer.”  
“Especially if she’s inherited her mother’s abilities,” Jaskier says. “I’d hate to have that unleashed in a public place, again.”

“Your child is magic, Geralt, and you didn’t plan on telling me?” Yennefer presses a hand to her chest in mock hurt. “I can’t believe you. What were you planning on doing with it, waiting until she killed someone by accident?”

“We don’t know she is. It skipped Calanthe, might have skipped her too.” Geralt isn’t sure if he should hope it did or not.

The door creaks open and Mousesack steps in, a small girl just behind him. Her eyes are red, but her expression is carefully composed. She looks exactly like her mother. The same big, brilliant, proud eyes. Geralt crosses the room.

“Princess.”

“Geralt. Mousesack says I belong to you.”

He towers over her and it doesn’t feel right. He kneels. It puts them on eye level. “I’m here to protect you. You don’t belong to anyone.” She smiles, small but it reaches her eyes. He’s passed her test. He nods to the two waiting patiently, for probably the first time in their lives, behind him. “She’s Yennefer and he’s Jaskier. They’re my friends.”

She looks them up and down. “A bard and a sorceress? Strange friends for a witcher.”

Jaskier bows with a flourish. “At your service, your highness. And just wait, she gets stranger the better you know her.”

“Ignore him, I know I do.” Jaskier makes a wounded noise at Yennefer's comment. “I’m sorry we’ve met under such circumstances.”

“My grandmother will handle it, and I won’t need protection, but thank you all the same.” A clatter rises from the courtyard below them, drawing their attention. Cirilla rushes to the window, peering down.

“They’re back!” She runs past them out into the hall.

“Ciri, wait!” Mousesack calls after her. “Let me talk to Calanthe first, I’ll be back.” He hurries after her, the door closing once more behind him.

Jaskier tries the knob, not really expecting it to open. It doesn’t. There’s no lock, so it’s clearly sealed with magic. “He does know that either of you could open this with about as much effort as it would take me to open a regular door, right?”

“He does.” Geralt says. “He’s just asking us to stay put, which we will.”

“Until we don’t have a choice.” Yennefer adds.

He nods. “Until we don’t have a choice.”

They wait until the sun has gone down, the sound of bustle in the courtyard fading away then rising again, distinctly more hostile than before. The clatter of racing hooves and feet, the shouts of combat and the cries of noncombatants. Smoke, subtle enough to go unnoticed by anyone but Geralt.

“We don’t have a choice.”

Jaskier breaks off his song when Geralt speaks. Yennefer flicks her hand towards the door and its hinges disintegrate. The corridor is empty, and the castle is large. As much as Geralt hates to part from them with a threat so close, their best bet of finding Ciri before it’s too late is to split up.

“The bard and I’ll check the upper levels. We’ll meet you in the courtyard,” Yennefer says.

Geralt says, “Be careful,” and runs down the stairs. His steps ring against the stones. She could be anywhere. She could be already gone, Calanthe might have sent her away rather than risk giving her to a witcher. The cries increase in pitch. The smoke thickens. He can see it, the red light flickers against the darkened walls, casting foul shadows. Geralt shoves open the first door he comes to. There’s a young man inside, or there was. He’s hung himself from the rafters. Geralt can’t blame him. The stories of what Nilfgaard has done were enough to churn even his stomach. He keeps looking.

There’s an electricity in the air when he steps outside, like something about to snap. He feels it when it does, magic dancing along his skin. He fishes a bottle of Cat from his bag and downs it. The potion works its way through his bloodstream and his vision compensates for the smoke and the shadows of the dancing flames. Geralt draws his sword. It’s like wading through a swamp when they come. A tide of black, slow but vicious, unskilled but determined and numerous enough to be exhausting. He cuts down soldier after soldier like parting mud and tries to down out the screaming as he makes his way around the castle to the back gates and the courtyard. If he can only save one person, it will be Cirilla.

There’s a body he recognizes at the bottom of the tower. Calanthe, visage unchanged over twelve years, even now proud in death. There’s a door on the other side of the tower, facing the into of the courtyard. She has to be there. He doesn’t want to consider the alternatives.

“Geralt!” Her voice is piercing and scratchy from the smoke and the terror, and among the best things Geralt has ever heard. She’s silhouetted by the lashing flames, shaking, but apparently unharmed.

Geralt knows he must look monstrous. He avoids using Cat where he could be seen, often waiting outside whatever town he’s in for its effects to wear off before returning, but he hadn’t had much choice. The little princess doesn’t seem to care his eyes are black, his veins are inky streaks across chalk-white skin, or that he’s completely covered in blood that’s mostly not his own. Cirilla throws herself into his arms like she’s done it a million times. Geralt catches her easily, holding her tight. Something inside his chest uncoils and he can’t place whether that ache had settled in when they were separated or some time long before that. He buries the thought. How terrifyingly quickly he has loved this child is something to explore later, once she’s safe.

“I’ve got you.” He tucks her head against his chest, turning her face away from the carnage around them. “Yen! We need to leave!” He shouts, searching for the sorceress in the chaos. 

“Here!” She’s somewhere to his left. The sharp scent of magic fills his nose as she pulls a portal into existence. He’s pushing through the waves, sword flashing, Cirilla hands curled into the plates of his armor, tense as a bowstring. Jaskier is back to back with Yennefer, short sword clutches tightly as he searches blindly in the dark. He nearly swings at them, the fire catching the white gold of the princess’s hair just before he moves.

“Oh thank the gods, let’s go.” He grabs Geralt’s arm and the four of them stumble through the portal.

Ciri opens her eyes slowly. It’s colder here, the sudden quiet ringing in her ears. She unpeels her fingers from Geralt’s armor and he sets her down. They’re in a sitting room, golden light pouring in from the lamps on the square through a window. There’s a piano against the wall and sheet music and pages of writing scattered across every vaguely flat surface. Her feet sink into plush carpets, no doubt leaving ashy footprints. The silence only lasts a minute before Yennefer breaks it. She drops to her knees in front of her, running her hands up and down Ciri’s arms as she checks her over. Jaskier hovers behind her, one hand on Yennefer’s shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” She brushes her fingers along Ciri’s hairline, “This isn’t your blood, is it?”

Ciri touches her cheek and her fingers come away red. She shakes her head and points towards Geralt. “It might be his.”

Yennefer and Jaskier tear their eyes away from the girl to look over the witcher. His skin is still unnaturally pale, eyes pitch dark. His black armor doesn’t reveal much, but he’s balancing his weight carefully on his left leg. Jaskier clicks his tongue.

“Princess, I’m sure you’re exhausted. Why don’t you let Yen clean up the mess this brute made of your face, and we can talk in the morning?”  
Ciri’s eyes droop as the adrenaline crash hits her. She nods and Yennefer takes her hand, leading her to the washroom. Geralt tenses as she disappears from his view.

“She’s okay, you made sure of that. Yennefer can protect her.” Jaskier’s voice is completely serious, as though there could be some threat in their washroom leagues away from Cintra. Geralt loves him for it. He presses their foreheads together, breathing deeply. Coppery blood, smoke, and the smell of a cedar that’s uniquely Jaskier wash over him. The poet cradles Geralt’s face and kisses him gently.

“Let’s take a look at that leg, so you don’t bleed all over the bed, shall we?”

Geralt huffs but lets him pull him from his armor and pile it by the couch. There’s a first aid kit tucked underneath it. Jaskier had taken to stashing them around whatever semi-permanent residence they found themselves in. Geralt had a bad habit of hiding injuries until he can’t, and Jaskier had gotten sick of having to scrub blood off their furniture. Geralt sits and tries to relax the tension through his shoulders. The cut isn’t deep but it’s long, cutting across most of Geralt’s thigh. Kneeling in front of him, Jaskier cleans and bandages it. He presses a kiss to the inside of his knee.

“All done. Not hiding anything else?”

“Hm. No.” Geralt’s eyes had fallen shut at some point, so he jumps when a cold wet cloth runs up his arm. Jaskier washes the blood from his hands and kisses each palm when he finishes. He drops the cloth into the pitcher he’d wet it from. They sit, still and quiet, Jaskier’s touch light and grounding on Geralt’s calves until Cat has run its course and he doesn’t feel quite so raw.

Yennefer and Cirilla return as the last of the black fades from his face. She looks calmer, but a far cry from the girl they’d met less than a day ago. She’s holding Yennefer’s hand tightly, leaning into her side.

“I’m guessing you want her to stay with you,” Yennefer states more than asks. Geralt grunts an affirmation. She doesn’t let go of her though, and Cirilla doesn’t seem to want to pull away.

“There’s room for both of you.” Jaskier smiles softly. “It’s a big bed.”

It is a big bed, but it’s still a tight fit with four. Laying between Yennefer and Geralt, Jaskier’s hand resting on her shoulder, Ciri doesn’t exactly feel safe, but she feels like she will, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.
> 
> It's a day late, and I'm not quite satisfied with the pacing, but I didn't want to get too far off my schedule so this is how it's going to be. I hope you're enjoying it so far! The end is within sight!


	6. Chapter 6

They spend the night in Oxenfurt and leave early the next day. Despite Geralt’s concerns, Ciri takes to life on the road with aplomb. They travel slower than he’s entirely pleased with, but between Ciri’s nightmares and the simple fact that she’s a human twelve-year-old, he tries to be patient. He makes it a week before it begins to get to him, an itch between his shoulder blades that screams  _ danger  _ and floods his system with adrenaline. It creeps up on him slowly, but by the time they reach Rinde he feels prickly and sharp like a wolf chained. It is simply not acceptable. Lashing out at Jaskier or Yennefer was far from ideal, but they could handle it. Lashing out at Ciri, however, was unthinkable. Geralt pulls every trick of self-control he’s ever learned and hopes it’s enough.

Jaskier wakes early, roused by a cold draft against his back. There’s something wrong about that. He rolls over, and Geralt isn’t behind him. The witcher is kneeling a few feet away, head bent in meditation. He’s still between them and the road, but he’s carefully far enough away that Jaskier would have to get up to touch him. When they’d first met, Geralt had barely slept. He’d just kneel, feet tucked up, and call it “mediating.” Jaskier thought it looked more like waiting. The tension never quite left him like that, he never looked well-rested. Jaskier had complained of the cold, had complained that his injuries really needed better rest, and eventually, the nights he slept properly outnumbered the nights when he didn’t. At this point, Geralt only meditated when there was some danger close by.

They are leagues from Nilfgaard’s front, and on a road so small it better counted as a deer track. Geralt is easily the most threatening thing out there. Jaskier sits up slowly, careful to not wake Ciri and Yennefer. Geralt’s eyes open as he kneels opposite him.

“Good morning.”

He grunts a response.

“Anything out there?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Geralt, you know what I mean.”

“No, nothing.”

Jaskier knows everything has been wearing on him. As much as he loved Ciri, Geralt had only recently grown accustomed to Jaskier’s constant presence, let alone that of a talkative and traumatized child. Their time in the city, while it had smoothed the rough edges between him and Yennefer, had pushed his “other people” tolerance to the limit. Jaskier thinks for a moment. They can’t exactly leave, as he had done on the rare occasions that Geralt needed to properly alone. He’d gone to the next town up ahead of schedule, claiming to miss his adoring audience. Geralt would find him, eventually. That wasn’t an option with Ciri. He’d drive them all mad by refusing to let her out of his sight. Jaskier digs through their saddlebags by the fire.  _ Perfect. _

“You’re looking a little low on potions.” He bites into an apple nonchalantly. “A day collecting new herbs might be a good idea.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “What would you do?” Not an argument, which was a good sign.

“Eh, I was thinking of heading into town. I could take the girls, do some shopping.” He pushes on, over the disapproving noise Geralt makes. “More food, since we’re going into the mountains, warmer clothing for Ciri. Changing up her look might be worth the coin, and a good cloak definitely would be.”

“You’ll take Yennefer?”

Jaskier puts a hand to his heart. “On my honor, I won’t go anywhere without a big strong sorceress to protect us.”

The ghost of a smile crosses Geralt’s lips. He stands up slowly, collecting his things from the fire. Geralt kept a meticulous camp. Jaskier wonders if it was something they drilled into him at witcher school, or if he was just organized by nature. Geralt straps his swords to his back and his herb pouch to his belt but forwent his full armor.

“I’ll be back, early afternoon.” He glances at the still sleeping Ciri and kisses him, short and fierce.

Jaskier smiles as he pulled away. “Be careful.”

Geralt looks over his shoulder as he disappears into the woods, a matching smile on his face. “Always.”

Yennefer and Ciri wake not long after.

“He’s collecting some herbs,” Jaskier offers before they can ask. “And we”—he pauses for dramatic effect—“Are going into a town!”

“Thank Melitele, I’ve missed civilization.” Yennefer pulled her on her coat, fluffing the fur collar. “I don’t know how you’ve lived like this for so long.”

“It’s a hardship, but I’ll do anything for my craft. It’s about twenty minutes up the road, so if we want a hot breakfast I suggest we get going.” Jaskier tossed Ciri a waterskin and saddled Pegasus and Dex.

The town is small, just a tavern and a few shops around a central square, houses and farms spreading behind them. Jaskier buys a tunic and cloak, and sturdier boots for Ciri. He spends his last few coins on a handful of sugar cubes for Roach and pretends to sneak Ciri one when Yennefer isn’t looking. With her hair tucked up under a cap and her homespun clothes, Ciri could be any other child. Jaskier doesn’t sing at the tavern, he’s far too recognizable even if he didn’t sing about Geralt (which would leave him with pathetically few songs). Someone else is singing though, a young girl with a beaten up lute. Ciri claps along enthusiastically, her foot tapping. Jaskier offers to teach her to play and her eyes light up.

The sun is high in the sky and their bags are full when they return to camp. Geralt hasn’t returned yet, but Roach knickers a greeting.

“Geralt is coming back, right?” Ciri asks as she repacks their purchases more neatly. She tries her best to sound unaffected, but she’s clearly bothered to return to an empty camp.

“Of course he’s coming back,” Yennefer answers. “He’d never leave you. He just...needs his own space sometimes, to process. He doesn’t always know what he’s feeling, and it makes him grumpy.”

Ciri smiles at that, before sobering. “I know he’s worried about them finding me.”

“That’s not your fault, and I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think any of us are ever going to stop worrying about you.” Jaskier nudges her shoulder. She grins and goes back to her organizing. Jaskier assumes the conversation is over.

“Jaskier? Can you cut my hair?”

It’s not what he was expecting her to ask. She seems to take his surprise as hesitance and follows quickly with: “It would make me less recognizable.”

“You don’t have to convince me, if you’re sure you want me to.”

“I’m sure.”

Jaskier looks at Yennefer, who shrugs. She digs around in her bag and pulls out a hand mirror and a pair of scissors. “They’re meant for herbs, but should work just as well.”

“There’s a stream not far that way, we can wet your hair.”

Ciri nods decisively and follows him into the woods.

Her hair curls tighter as the weight falls away. It covers the grass like spun gold.

“I used to have long hair, you know?” Jaskier says.

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, longer than Geralt’s. Sit still!” She straightens her shoulders, chastened. “It was long and lovely and I’d never been so happy as the day I got rid of it all.”

“Why’d you keep it long in the first place?”

He shrugs. “Forgot about it, I guess, got used to it.” Ciri hums and Jaskier laughs. “You’re starting to sound like him. There.” He brushes a hand across her nape, catching the last clinging hairs. “All done.” Jaskier pulls out a mirror he’d lifted from Yennefer’s pack and offers it to her. Her hair is short in the back and around the sides but long enough on the top that it falls across her forehead.

Ciri traces the edge of her shorn hair, the texture unfamiliar. “Thank you,” she says, sudden tears catching in her voice.

Jaskier kneels in front of her and takes her hands in his. “What’s wrong? Do you not like it? I promise it will grow back if you want it.”

She shakes her head. “I love it. It’s just-” She breaks off, frustrated. “It’s just not quite right? I thought I’d look different? I don’t know.” Ciri wipes angrily at her eyes.

“That’s okay.” He hugs her tightly, her head tucked under his chin. “You don’t have to know what you’re feeling.”

They stand there swaying by the bank of the river until Ciri pulls away, eyes red by dry.

“Thanks. A bit like Geralt, right?”

“Just like Geralt. Speaking of which, I think we should head back.”

Yennefer looks her over and gives an approving nod. Geralt returns as the last of the day’s light fades behind the trees, bag full and more settled than he had been that morning. He ruffles Ciri’s hair as he lays down beside her.

“Do you like it?” she whispers.

“It suits you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply!
> 
> Sorry this chapter is so short and rushed, I messed up my outline. I have realized there's more to this story than I'd originally thought, so I hope you're willing to stick around for a few more chapters. I'm taking a bit of a break to write for Geraskier week, but as soon as that's over I'll be back with a chapter a week!


	7. Chapter 7

Yennefer had left a few days before. “Tissaia needs help,” she’d said, and waited barely long enough for them to wish her luck before going. Ciri had worried, Jaskier and Geralt had pretended not to worry, and they’d planned to meet her in the next town large enough to have an inn. The war rages on south of them, creeping ever closer as the cold of winter sinks its teeth into the landscape. Each day they pressed on thoughts of Yennefer grew heavier. Geralt pushed their pace hard, eager to make it to the next inn. Jaskier and Ciri bore it without complaint, breaking camp in a hurry each morning more smoothly than the last.

They decide to walk the horses for a bit, they’ve ridden hard for most of the day and the road had turned uneven. It would be a nightmare if one of them broke a leg this far from the next town. Jaskier is just about to launch into the chorus of his latest masterpiece when Geralt freezes, throwing his hand up for silence.

“We’re being followed.”

Eight forms detach themselves from the shadows and encircle them on the road, clad in the black leather of Nilfgaardian scouts. They draw their blades as one, slowly approaching. Geralt pulls his steel from its sheath. The way they move, the unity and precision, speaks to greater training than the average foot soldier. He weighs their chances.

“Run!”

Jaskier grabs Ciri and runs.

Trees flash by them, dark pillars in the night; Ciri’s breath loud in her ears. Jaskier’s holding her wrist so tightly it hurts. Ciri trips, and he hauls her up without stopping. He won’t let them take her. The sound of steel on steel and steel on flesh rings out from behind them. Jaskier does his best to ignore it.  _ Geralt will find us.  _ There’s something moving ahead of them. Black armor, and a raised crossbow step around a tree. Jaskier throws himself in front of Ciri. It feels like someone has thrown a rock at him, like he’s been hit with a bat of some sort in his right shoulder. Then it’s hot and the trees all tip around him.

Someone is crying. Ciri. Ciri is crying and Jaskier needs to comfort her. There’s blood, warm and sticky. He needs to make sure she's safe. It hurts so much he can’t fucking breathe. She’s underneath him. He needs to get up, they need to keep running. Ciri wriggles free from his dead weight. Her hands are pressing against his back, fluttering and useless. The archer is probably still there; she needs to run. Jaskier lifts his head and tries to tell her. Blood fills his mouth. He spits, gasping for breath. Ciri opens her mouth and  _ screams.  _ Jaskier promptly blacks out.

Geralt feels the sound down to his bones, tingling with magic.  _ Ciri.  _ He cuts down the last of the Nilfgaardians and sprints after the sound. The fear rising in him at her voice is matched by the fear of not hearing Jaskier’s. It hurts. The closer he gets, the sharper the pain becomes. Geralt isn’t sure if his mutations make him more sensitive to her magic or more resistant, but he could swear his ears were bleeding.

They’re not far and easy to find. Ciri is crouched over Jaskier, clutching at his red doublet. No. His doublet had been gold. There’s a soldier crumpled on the ground, the stock of a crossbow buried in his chest. She’s still screaming. She’s screaming but exhaustion has bled the magic from it and now she’s just a girl kneeling over the body of someone who was supposed to protect her. The scent of fear is thick enough on the air that Geralt can’t differentiate whose it is: hers, or his own. He drops to his knees next to Ciri and pulls her against his chest. She sobs, and the magic around them breaks.

“Please please please,” she gasps, babbling. “He’s hurt, he got shot.” Ciri looks up at him and her eyes nearly glow in the low light of distant fires. “You have to save him, Geralt.”

“I know, I know.” He shifts so Ciri leans against him and pulls a dagger from his boot. He’s glad Jaskier is already unconscious as he saws off the end of the bolt. He strips off his shirt and binds the wound as best he can. It's far beyond his own healing abilities. The bolt is deep through his chest. A few inches to the left and he’d be dead with a shattered spine or a ruined heart. Geralt pushes the relief away. It’s not given that he’ll survive just because he wasn’t killed instantly. As it is, the bolt has certainly punctured his lung, meaning he could drown in his own blood. They need magical help. There’s a larger town an hour ride ahead, but there’s no guarantee they’d find the help they need there. They might not make it, or Nilfgaard might have taken the town by the time they arrive. Geralt picks Jaskier up as gently as he can. He ignores the warm feeling of the poet’s blood against his hands, sticky on his bare skin.

Roach and Pegasus are where they left them on the road. Geralt considers their options.

"Ciri."

"Yes?"

"I need you to ride with Jaskier, take him back to the cabin we passed." He can't send her on alone, not that this is a much better option. At the cabin, she could likely get him basic medical care, even if Geralt returned empty-handed as he suspected he would. "I'm going to find help, but I can’t take you two with me and I can't leave you here."

Ciri looks at him, then down at Jaskier. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. "Okay."

She climbs onto Pegasus and Geralt balances Jaskier in the saddle behind her. He pulls out a length of rope and quickly binds him to the saddle. He'd have rather put Jaskier in front, so he could lean back against her, but Ciri was so small she wouldn't have been able to see around him.

"Ride fast, and be careful."

She nods hard. "You too."

Ciri snaps the reins and Pegasus takes off, carrying them into the dark. Geralt mounts Roach and turns the other way. The next town is only an hour at a flat gallop, and it’ll be big enough to have a sorcerer. It has to be.

The wind bites at Ciri’s wet cheeks. Pegasus’ sides heave beneath her. There’s a light through the trees, just around the bend. Just a little further. Jaskier is slack at her back. They skid to a stop and she can’t get down because if she does then Jaskier will fall, so she shouts, “Help! Someone, please, I need help!” and lets her voice sound as young and high as fear pushes it. She’s found sympathy comes more easily the more helpless someone seems.

A woman with greying hair pulled back loosely and a faded flowered apron comes running out. There’s flour on her hands and Ciri wants to trust her.

“What’s wrong, little one?” Her voice is low and worried. In the dark, she can’t see the blood staining Jaskier’s back or the limp way he hangs against her.

“He’s hurt, we got attacked by bandits on the road.” Ciri tugs at the ropes holding him in place. “Can we stay with you, for a little while? Our friend is coming, but-”

“Of course you can stay. We have a spare bed he can use. Let me get my partner to help get him down.” The woman ran into the house and came back with another in tow, with far greyer hair and darker skin. She pulled a knife from her belt and cut through the ropes holding Jaskier in place. The two of them lifted him down as gently as they could and carried him into the house, Ciri close behind them.

The house was warm and well-appointed, a few doors leading off a kitchen and seating room. They lay Jaskier on his chest on the bed behind the second door. Ciri hovered over him, desperate to help but terrified of making it worse. The greyer of the women left to boil some water and collect their healing supplies. The other perched on the edge of the bed and urged Ciri to do the same.

“My name is Chana, and my partner’s name is Dar. What’s yours, little one?”

“Rian.”

“What happened, Rian? Who’s this friend of yours?”

_ He’s the lover of the witcher who won me as a gift of destiny.  _ “Julian. He’s family. He got shot protecting me.” The words stick in her throat.  _ How much danger have they been in because of me? What if he dies? _

Chana pulls her close and wraps her in soft arms and lets her cry until Dar comes back. Ciri holds the bowl of water as Chana soaks the makeshift bandage and Jaskier’s doublet until she can pull them loose. She doesn’t want to see it but can’t look away from the fresh trail of blood pooling along his spine, the thick wooden shaft emerging from his shoulder blade. Chana washes the dirt and sweat from around the wound and rewraps it with clean bandages. She wipes the blood from his back until it looks like the wound could be old and already healing. There’s nothing left to do but wait and hope Geralt can find the help they need. Dar brings her a bowl of stew and they eat at Jaskier’s bedside.

Ciri’s eyes are beginning to droop when there’s a loud banging at the door. She jumps up and flings it open before her hosts can warn her to be cautious. Geralt, still bloodied and shirtless beneath his coak with Yennefer tucked against his side. Ciri wants to pin them both in a hug then drag them to Jaskier, but a second glance at Yennefer suggests that it wouldn’t be a good idea. Ashe streaks her face, and her eyes seem glassy. She’s swaying on her feet, as though she’d fall without Geralt to support her. He half carries her into the house.

“Is he…”

“He’s not worse. Through there.” Ciri points. “Dar and Chana helped as much as they could.”

Geralt sighs deeply, some of the tension going out of him.

“Is Yen alright? Why isn’t she at Aretuza?”

“She will be,” he says, “and I don’t know. She said she knew we needed her.” Geralt leads her into Jaskier’s room. Yennefer sinks to sit beside him. She brushes her fingers through his hair, pushing the sweaty fringe off his forehead. Chana hovers in the doorway.

“Your friends, I take it?”  
Ciri nods.

“Why don’t you help me bring them something to eat, and clean up with?”

“Okay.”

They return with stew and clean water and rags. Geralt has bound Yennefer’s hair back, leaving his own to fall loose around his face. She looks a little more herself but worn in a way that a few days apart shouldn’t have made her. Chana pulls Ciri away again to help her draw a bath.

Geralt wets one of the rags and takes Yennefer’s hand in his. He washes away the blood and ash on one, then the other. He wipes away the tear tracks and dirt on her face and they eat in silence until her hands stop shaking. She pushes her half-full bowl back to him and pushes him to the door.

“I can save him, I promise.” The dull blank look in her eyes is gone, and in its place is fire so hot Geralt thinks it might burn him to touch her.

“I know you can.”

She squares her shoulders and nods, then closes the door. Geralt rests his forehead against it for a long moment. Then he joins Ciri.

Yennefer emerges two hours later, looking simultaneously better and worse than before. More drawn, more tired, but calmer.

“He’s alright.” Ciri barely gives her time to finish before she’s running to his bedside and climbing in alongside him, careful to stay on his left side. Geralt kneels beside him. His fingers lightly brush the pink scar where the wound had been. They leave flakes of dried blood, the last reminders of what nearly happened.

Yennefer smiles. “I think they said something about a bath?”

Geralt huffs. “I think we both could use one.”

“Later.” She rests her hand against Jaskier’s wrist, feeling his pulse, warm and quick. “I just- I need a moment.”

“Okay.” Geralt stands and wraps his hand over hers. “He’s alright because of you, Yen.”

“I think this one counts as a team effort.”

Geralt squeezes gently and slips out of the room. Yennefer times her breaths to Jaskiers and waits for her heart to slow to match his. It takes a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Our trio have a lot to talk about and I've promised an actual sex scene including Yennefer, so stick around. It might take a bit, since I'm working intensively on my novel for the next three weeks.  
> \----  
> Jaskier is badly injured by a crossbow bolt, Yennefer heals him.  
> Once again, no sex. I promise one more sexy scene before we're done!


	8. Chapter 8

Jaskier is still sleeping soundly, Ciri wrapped around him, when Yennefer seeks out Geralt. She finds him in the bath. He’s certainly heard her approach, but doesn’t respond. His back is to her, hunched over his drawn-up knees. He’s still, but the water ripples. He’s crying, she realizes. Yennefer kneels beside the tub. She runs her hand over his hair and he presses into the contact. The water is pink with Jaskier’s blood. It’s smeared across his chest. Yennefer wraps her arms around his shoulders. He leans his head on her shoulder, the angle awkward with the tub between them.

“Can I join you?” she asks softly.

He nods, sitting up just enough to let her slip out of her ruined dress. Yennefer sinks into the warm water and pulls him back into her arms. She strokes his hair until his shaking stops.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice rough. Geralt tries to pull away and she tightens her hold on him for a moment before letting him go.

“It’s alright.” There’s a sponge floating in the water. Yennefer catches it and his hand. She cleans the blood from his skin, meticulously washing away the evidence of the night. It’s settled into the lines of his skin, drying under his nails, but she is patient. Geralt unwinds bit by bit, tension seeping away from him. The water is growing too cold for her by the time she’s done. Yennefer climbs out of the tub and offers him a hand up.

“Are you okay, Yen?”

“Yes,” she says, but her voice breaks and she can’t hide the tears that come. She clings to Geralt like he’s an anchor, like he hadn’t just broken down himself. She’ll blame it on exhaustion, later, but now she lets it roll over her like the tide and trusts Geralt won’t let it carry her away. It’s the wrongness behind her breastbone that had screamed  _ Jaskier needs me _ and how pale he’d looked lying there, how mortal. It’s Tissaia’s face when Yennefer had let her chaos free and how clearly she’d expected to be burned along with everything else. It’s Triss lying by the gate and Sabrina’s dull eyes and the sound of her hitting the ground. Yennefer is no stranger to blood, to pain and death. She had thought her whole life a battle against the world but she had not truly known war. Geralt knows. He knows that she doesn’t need words, only to feel the warmth of him, the rhythm of his breathing, the steady slow beat of his heart. Giving it to her restores his equilibrium in a way he hadn’t known he’d needed. It takes a long time before she pulls away, but Geralt is patient.

They dress and make their way back to their room. Jaskier has shifted to wrap his arm around Ciri. His eyes open when they enter, the creaking of the floor giving them away. They’re at his side in a flash.

“Shh. I’m alright,” Jaskier whispers. “Don’t wake her.”

Geralt laces their hands together. His lips part, but words evade him.

Yennefer spares him. “Don’t try to die on us again.” She’s aiming for levity, but she sounds deathly serious.

“I’ll do my best to avoid crossbow bolts in the future.” Jaskier looks down at Ciri, her blonde head tucked against his shoulder. He doesn’t say it, but they all know that she’s the exception. He’ll always put himself between her and danger. Yennefer can’t blame him. She’d do the same.

Geralt seems to have given up on trying to find his words because he curls around Jaskier like his bulk could protect the poet from what so nearly happened. They look so right like that, the three of them. Yennefer lets her fingers brush the fringe off Jaskier’s forehead before she turns and tugs the blanket at the end of the bed free.

“Stay, love.” Sleep softens Jaskier’s words but they find their way to Yennefer’s core like daggers.

“He hasn’t gone anywhere, Jaskier. Geralt’s right there.”

“I was talking to you.”

“Please, Yen?” She turns around and Geralt is reaching out to her. “Stay with us?”

“Alright.” Yennefer lets him pull her down. “Really?”

“Really.” Jaskier reaches his arm across Ciri to settle his broad palm on his lower back. “Can we talk in the morning?”

She nods, but he’s already asleep. Exhaustion struggles to drag her under, her nap having done little against battle fatigue, but Yennefer fights to stay awake a little longer. They’ve shared a bed before, many times. It’s cheaper, it’s practical, and yes, she’ll admit, it’s soothing. But it’s never spoken out loud. They reach for each other when it’s cold, they don’t complain when the innkeeper can’t offer them two rooms. Jaskier  _ asked  _ for her. He called her  _ love. _

Yennefer is used to loving Geralt. Loving him has changed, so slowly she didn’t notice when the sharp edges of the feeling rounded off and the ache of it gentled into a soft warmth. She simply realized one day the handful of sand she’d carried with her had become a pearl cupped in her palms. Jaskier had been the tide that ground them down and built them back up without giving any thought to it as he went about his day. He’d snuck in through the cracks in her shell and made himself a home in her chest in the hollow place that Geralt could never quite fill and she’d assumed was simply meant to be empty.

Yennefer is, likewise, used to not having the things she wants, to the point that she isn’t entirely certain that she would know what to do with them if they fell into her lap, as though the thing itself had been consumed by the battle for it. She holds her love tight to her chest with both hands and leaves herself with nothing to reach with and no one to reach back for her. Ciri was the exception, she’d thought. Ciri had held out her little hand and Yennefer could do nothing but take it. And now Jaskier and Geralt at once, reaching out and leaving her with no hands to protect herself.  _ Love.  _ Jaskier’s hand twitches on her back and Yennefer realizes that she has never felt safer. They’ll talk in the morning.

Geralt is stacking wood by the fire when Jaskier and Yennefer finally drag themselves from bed. Snow dances in the cold morning light and clings to the window panes. Geralt pours two mugs of tea from the kettle on the hearth and offers them to Jaskier and Yennefer, who take them with a dramatic shiver and a nod of thanks, respectively. Out of ideas, he turns to look at Jaskier, who sighs and says, “I suppose we ought to talk now, yes?”

Yennefer nods, a tense little movement, and sits on the edge of the hearth. Jaskier takes the chair across from her. Geralt opts to sit beside her, forgoing the other chair.

“You called me love.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Jaskier smiles crookedly, “I was planning to confess to you somewhat more coherently, but it’s a bit late for that.”

She looks at Geralt. “And you’re okay with this?”

“How could I fault him for loving you when I know how easy it is?”

“I’m anything but.”

“No,” says Jaskier. “No, you- Loving you is tied for the second easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Yennefer tips her head in a question. Jaskier is struck by how purely Geralt the motion is. He wonders if she knows, he wonders what mannerisms he’s picked up from her. “After loving the little monster helping Dar see to the horses. Tied with loving him.”

“We talked about it, Yen, before. Just weren’t sure how to ask,” Geralt says. “We want- I want to be with both of you.”  
“And so do I.” Jaskier twirls his hand, indicating all of them. “We want to try this—all of us—if you want to try it.” He presses his palm against his knee to stop it from jumping.

“Yes.” Yennefer’s answer seems to come before she’s given it permission to leave her lips. “I want to try.”

“Really?” Geralt can’t conceal the surprise in his voice.

“Well,” Yennefer smiles at him, gentler than she’s ever let daylight see her before. “Loving you is tied for the second easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! We've come to the end. There was no more smut, I'm going to continue to write in this series, a collection of shorts most likely, but I've lost a lot of motivation with the quarantine and figured it would be better to wrap this up rather than leave it hanging. Subscribe to the series if you're interested!
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my beta sun-flier. You were so much help with this!
> 
> Come talk to me at [not-a-fucking-pogo-stick](https://not-a-fucking-pogo-stick.tumblr.com/), and send me Witcher prompts! I'll write pretty much anything.


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